


Of Dickens and Doughnuts

by TeaCub90



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Affection, Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Christmas Tree, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, M/M, Prompt: Bah humbug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21878533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Crowley, is there a reason why there is an undecorated Christmas tree on my shop-floor?’
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	Of Dickens and Doughnuts

* * *

‘Now, you’re _really_ gonna have to behave yourself if you want to stay standing…’

A voice, like silk and more than a little familiar, filters through the shop as Aziraphale returns from his errand to buy more milk and those doughnuts from his favourite bakery; usually he can stay inside for days at a time if he has nothing better to do, nowhere to be, either with Crowley or by himself and is perfectly capable of miracling up what he needs from scratch, but he chose this Soho neighbourhood for a reason, and he’s fond of having a stroll around every now and then, catching up with the other shopkeepers and at this time of year, just looking at all the pretty lights. Even spreading a little Christmas cheer in the neighbourhood if he can, with a careful tread, to the exhausted mothers and worried shoppers and lonely passers-by; an empty bench here, a mysterious discount there, a stranger stopping to say hello and exchange pleasantries, well. Tis the season, after all. 

But he stands at the back entrance to the shop – didn’t want to come through the main doorway for fear of attracting shoppers – with the milk-bottle and the doughnut bag, listening to the noise at the front. The noise of Crowley and – between the shelves, if one cares to look – the slink of him, wandering with threatening intent around a fir tree that – much like Crowley himself – most definitely wasn’t there when Aziraphale went out fifteen minutes ago. It doesn’t help that the poor fir tree is shaking in its boots. Well, in its – little trunk holder. The…steadying-thing it stands in. The pot! Of _course._ Aziraphale knew he’d picked up _something_ from his years as the Dowlings’ gardener.

‘Don’t expect to be watered too often,’ Crowley is growling, wandering around like a sergeant-major who’s been deprived of shooting anyone for a week. ‘He prefers books to horticulture, and definitely don’t make a nuisance of yourself while you’re here, or I’ll –’ 

‘Darling,’ Aziraphale declares, very deliberately, trundling through the shelves into the open; Crowley whips around, mid-threat, looking slightly caught. No explanation seems forthcoming, so Aziraphale starts with the obvious. ‘What are you doing to that poor tree and where exactly did it come from?’

‘Where did _you_ come from?’ Crowley demands, turning the questions back on him, just as he always does when he’s trying to buy himself time, and Aziraphale sighs and rolls his eyes, placing the doughnuts distractedly on the nearest surface next to a pile of Arthur Conan Doyles.

‘I _live_ here, darling.’

‘Well! I live here too, sometimes.’ It’s a rather pointless, blustering line of enquiry and does nothing to hide the fact that Crowley is attempting, badly, to hide the still-quivering tree from view. Aziraphale puts his glasses on to better inspect the scene and to look mildly intimidating like the detectives do on those ITV dramas. Also, apparently, glasses are ‘sexy.’

‘Crowley, is there a reason why there is an undecorated Christmas tree on my shop-floor?’

‘Which tree? This one?’ Crowley puts on an air of supreme innocence and Aziraphale shakes his head, wandering across and past him to inspect – and in turn soothe – the fearful fir.

‘It’s alright,’ he murmurs, reaching up a hand to stroke the pine-needles; immediately, the tree quietens, stills, under his gentle ministrations. ‘Whatever he’s told you, ignore him. He’s just being silly.’ He beams, impudent, at the sound of spluttering beside him, focused on comforting the tree, which is surely a thing of magnificence, lush and thick, and with strong branches that look as though they could hold a great many decorations.

Which is, perhaps, the point.

‘Now, my dear…’ He turns a raised eye to Crowley, takes off his glasses, points to the bag. ‘Please have a doughnut and enlighten me.’

Mutinously – and rather miraculously – Crowley does as he’s told, taking a treat out and all but shoving the bag at Aziraphale’s chest. ‘Wanted to surprise you,’ he mutters around a huge mouthful, just a little aggressively; the tree shivers again and Crowley snarls at it, which doesn’t help and which earns him a stern look. ‘You’ve been – that is –’ 

‘Darling,’ Aziraphale cuts across him, sidling closer reassuringly. ‘Did you… happen to buy this tree for me? Or,’ he raises his eyebrows as the more likely, well, _likelihood_ occurs to him, ‘… _Grow_ it, for me?’

‘It was an _experiment!’_ Crowley snaps. ‘I had to do _something_ with it, at the end of all that. Thought you might be able to handle it.’

Aziraphale hums, taking another doughnut in order to give himself time to think. In terms of Christmas, the urge to decorate his shop has come and gone over the years; he’s been here for such a long time – and seen so many festive seasons, many of them varieties of wonderful to spectacularly bad (sadly, one more than the other, despite his best efforts) – that dressing up his shop seems to have become a little counter-productive and pointless. You’ve seen one Christmas, you’ve seen them all, even if his immortality means experiencing a full range of the varieties of the season – from the very first one that ever was, to the fires and caps and carol-singers of Victorian times, to these modern times when not getting a child one of those fruity-logo computer things they all seem to be addicted to apparently necessitates a tantrum. That’s the thing with the festive season; it always seems to come around again so quickly, marking out his long, long life on earth with a particular panache and, well. A tree would get in the way of the books.

That, _and attract shoppers._

And Crowley brought it here for him, undoubtedly as a gift. Aziraphale doesn’t get many gifts; he’s picked up things here and there, bequeathed or passed on with nobody else to claim it – a handsome pocket-watch from a grateful prince for his timely intervention with an assassin; a rather handsome pair of book-ends somebody didn’t have a use for. But this is something brought here, especially for him and although he does need to have words with Crowley about his growing/threatening tactics, he can’t deny it’s quite sweet. Well, not the threatening part – but something just for him, all the same.

‘It’s wonderful, darling,’ he praises aloud, turning to admire the tree again. ‘You’ve done a fine job.’ He thinks he sees Crowley visibly straighten up, like a peacock unveiling its feathers and smiles softly at the tree, already getting ideas for the tree’s décor. He would never stoop so low as to put actual books on the branches, but maybe he could conjour up miniature versions of some of his favourite titles, adorable little decorative doubles to hang up; book-inspired jewellery seems to be all the range these days. Maybe a few chocolates, too; he rather fancies _that_ particular concept. Whoever thought of putting chocolates on trees – and sadly, Aziraphale never actually got to meet them – was an absolute genius, clearly.

‘You like it, then?’ Crowley asks, affecting nonchalance and missing by a mile. Aziraphale smiles and reaches for him, tugging him in for a tight hug, running a hand down his back, enjoying the simple contact which always shuts out the excess noise. He loves London, loves living here with Crowley, but the city-buzz makes the quiet time they share even more precious.

‘I think I might call him Charlie,’ he proclaims thoughtfully, after a moment. ‘In honour of Charles Dickens, you know.’ Oh, Charles was a one; so intelligent, with a marvellous sense of humour, truly. It’s a shame that he and Crowley never got to spend time with him together, the three of them. Sadly, it was during a rather tense time in their lives, a certain, almost-century-long argument about a particular procurement of a very specific kind of water and, well. The less said, the better about _that._

For his part, Crowley groans. ‘Oh, angel, you don’t need to _name him…!’_

‘Hush, you,’ Aziraphale scolds playfully, kissing his cheek before they part. ‘Charles was a true master of the written word.’ There are still many first editions of that great, dear man’s work scattered around his shop, one or two of them even signed and even if there was that truly peculiar take on _A Christmas Carol_ back in the early 90s with those – those _puppety_ characters (and Charles was most certainly _not_ a strange-looking blue fellow with a beak, thankyou very much), he’s still so proud of the legacy that the wonderful wordsmith left behind.

He runs a hand through those lovely red locks, soft as ever, coaxing a reluctant smile from the demon and then he gives him another hug just because it’s Christmas and the worst is behind them, at least for a while, and because he just _can;_ can enjoy this moment of Crowley giving him such a perfect gift. It’s so incredibly thoughtful and he knows the demon would absolutely hate him to mention it, so he shows him instead, with this simple, loving embrace.

‘Thankyou,’ he murmurs and gets a meaningful grunt somewhere near his ear – even as Crowley tightens his hold and presses his face into his shoulder.

‘Bah, overused literary _clichés,’_ he declares, very loudly and with obvious, put-upon grouchiness. Aziraphale just giggles and sends him to seek out some decorations.

*


End file.
